


Only the Beginning

by danfics (starlight_brigade)



Category: Game Grumps, Ninja Sex Party - Fandom
Genre: (lots of different time periods), (ya know cuz they’re immortal and shit), Alternate Universe, Emotional Fluff, F/M, Immortals, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, historical fiction au, painful fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-07-03 04:44:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15811635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_brigade/pseuds/danfics
Summary: Even through hundreds of years, catastrophe, death and rebirth of consciousness, true love never dies.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_“Death is not extinguishing the light; it is only putting out the lamp because the dawn has come.” - Rabindranath Tagore_

* * *

_April 18, 1912_

There he was.

Brian couldn’t believe his eyes. 81 years of visiting sites of large-scale catastrophes and only now did he find what he was looking for.

He only caught glimpses through the crowd at Pier 54, dense both with people eager to find out that their loved ones had survived, and with reporters ravenously seeking any information from eyewitnesses. But he saw one man, almost comically out of place, flinching away from the bright flashes in stark contrast to the dark of the night, from cameras held by people shouting things at him that he obviously didn’t understand. He was stumbling along with the flow of people, being pushed forward rather than going on his own accord. Nowhere to go. Not looking for someone.

Brian stood near the back of the crowd of possibly thousands, allowing the survivors to be filtered through and collected by their sobbing counterparts in highly emotional embraces. And, as he had hoped (and expected by his demeanor), the man he had spotted towering above the crowd still had not been claimed, even as he was pushed farther and farther along the dock. As the crowd became more sparse, however, the pushing died down, and the man was left wandering without aim.

It was now or never.

“Danny?!” Brian began his show, calling the first name that came to mind, weaving through the crowd. “Danny-boy! We were so worried about you.” As he took hold of his arm, the man was startled and confused, a scared animal, overwhelmed by such a large amount of rapidfire stimulus. “Come now, the taxi is waiting.”

Despite being fully aware that “Danny” had no idea what he was saying, Brian continued to ramble nonsense about “your mother and I” and being “immensely relieved that you’re alright” as, with a firm grip on the new stranger’s arm, he led him across the dock, to the street, and into the back seat of a waiting taxi cab, giving quick instructions to the driver to deliver them to the train station.

As he shut the door behind him and the automobile began on its way, Brian abandoned the facade. He studied the man more closely, noting the stupor that bordered on fear in his large unknowing eyes.

“Can you understand me at all?” he spoke quietly after some time, not able to decide whether he wanted more for him to be simply an immigrant that didn’t understand English, or for him to be what he thought he was.

“Danny”’s vision snapped toward him as he spoke, only in response to the stimulus, as his eyes continued to dart around after his sentence had finished, paying no mind to the fact that Brian had said something.

He took that as a “no”. And as such, he deduced by the man’s reaction, he was, in fact, what he thought he was.

There wasn’t any big event that made it happen. No ritual, no spell, no bite from another. It was just random, like a glitch in the matrix. A rare codon, untested and unexplained. A millionth of a fraction of a percentage of humans that have ever existed held the world’s best-kept secret as a mutation in their DNA. 

They couldn’t die. 

Well, that wasn’t necessarily true. Their body couldn’t die. Their cells were so good at repairing themselves that, theoretically, no matter how completely and utterly destroyed the body may be, the only way to truly kill them would be to meticulously seek out and destroy every immortal cell out of trillions. Otherwise, over time, the cells would continue to multiply until the body was completely rebuilt. Damage to the brain, however, meant the death of consciousness, and as the brain was recreated, so was the self: mannerisms and memories.

It was something that Brian had been studying for as long as he knew that he was immortal himself; his friends and loved ones got older, looked different, sounded different. Their bodies aged, their hair grayed. Their skin sagged. Their joints grew stiff and creaky, and their bones became brittle. Their organs gave out. Then they died. And none of it happened to him.

This mutation was so rare that it was almost completely un-researched, only told of in myths and legends. Brian had never been one to believe in those things, always preferring proof over speculation. But after the seventh funeral of a close friend, he began to have suspicions. So he took up theoretical science, biology and physics, to attempt to find a reason why. 

Mathematically he knew he wasn't alone. He couldn’t be. Legends had to exist for a reason. He wasn’t the first, and he wouldn’t be the last. So he had spent the last 81 years searching for someone like him: someone who couldn’t remember being small, only naive; someone who stumbled into this world with little to no explanation as to how or why.

And now, as he watched his newfound discovery’s eyes dart around frantically trying to take in his surroundings, he believed he had finally found one.

As a streetlamp passed, the light glinted off of a metal chain around the man’s neck, catching Brian’s eye. Curiosity befell him, as he wondered what that could possibly be, and then overcame him, as he reached for it, determining that if it was a locket, any contents or even an engraving could give some clue to who this might once have been.

The man tensed and flinched at Brian’s touch, but with some words said in a soothing tone, he swiftly lifted the chain over his head and pulled it out from where it was tucked inside his tattered shirt.

It _was_ a locket -- a silver oval, one side decorated by an intricate pattern of vines and leaves, the other smooth aside from a name: Leigh Daniel Avidan. What a coincidence; “Danny” hadn’t been too far off. Although, Brian supposed, that could have been the name of anyone, but it was the closest to any sort of identification he was most likely going to get. Especially since the locking mechanism was stuck, and there wasn’t much chance of opening the thing without breaking it completely.

Leigh, though? He didn’t look like a Leigh. It was a bit odd to call somebody by their middle name… but it suited him much better.

Danny it was.

***

_January 19th, 1933_

You snapped to attention as your father’s cold hand, cradled in a firm grip between both of yours, weakly squeezed. You reciprocated. “Did I ever tell you,” his creaky, trembling voice spoke for the first time in many hours, “how I always believed you were the Little Mermaid?”

Yes, he had. Many times. But you wanted to hear him speak, to keep him coherent and at least somewhat lucid in what had to have been his last moments. “No,” you choked out, tears continuing to fall from your burning eyes as they had for the past 48 hours.

“I always did.” His breathing was labored, but he struggled through, barely audible underneath the wind howling outside in the dark winter night. “From the day I found you on the rocks outside. My mother told me the story of the mermaid who sold her soul to have legs, and that’s what I saw. A girl with a beauty not of this world.”

You remembered it. It was the first thing you remembered; the old man drifting his boat to the end of the dock and mooring it, and dragging his full crab pots onto the wood of the dock, before turning to notice you, shivering, cold, and wet, clothes tattered and torn from being adrift for god knows how long. He had called out to you, words and a tone of which you didn’t understand the meaning. He had helped you stand, and kept you balanced, as standing was something you hadn’t done before. And then he had brought you inside the tiny weathered boathouse, lit the fireplace for you, fed you, wrapped you in blankets, and let you sleep.

And then, for 21 years, he raised you like the child he never had. You had asked him before why he never married, and he told you he fell in love with the sea; he never found a reason to share his life with another. Until you, of course. But that was in a different way, he told you. You didn’t understand, but he assured you you would someday, when you ventured out into the rest of the vast open free world as he so badly wanted you to. He wanted you to experience everything the world had to offer.

But you had felt so small, so alien in the city when you had traveled with him to sell his catches. It was bustling and lively and so very interesting, but it was loud and overwhelming, and you didn’t know if you could handle it. Especially on your own.

But he urged you to. He encouraged you to grow, to live your own life as a strong individual. So you tried your best to make him happy and proud.

“... and you always had such a lovely voice…” his words faded in and then back out, as if he was continuing to speak, even though he had been silent. “Please,” he croaked, “sing for me…”

It was watery and choked, but you did as he asked. The first song that came to mind; the first one you had sang, the first words that had formed from your mouth from the beginning. “ _We’d be alright if the wind was in our sails, oh we’d be alright if the wind was in our sails…_ ” You recalled the elated grin that had stretched across his face when he first heard you sing along with him the shanty of which he was most fond during his time in the Navy, weakly reflected now as he heard you again. 

“ _We’d be alright if the wind was in our sails, and we’ll all hang on behind…_ ” He loved your voice, every time just as happy to hear it and listen to you sing as he was the first time. 

“ _And we’ll rooooll the old chariot along…_ ” You closed your eyes as you continued to sing, coming out as more whispers than tone through your crying, as you listened to his labored breathing. 

One last long exhale, and he was gone.

“ _And we’ll all hang on behind…_ ”

***


	2. Chapter 2

_One pound and ten shillings._

_Three months’ worth of savings. Three years of avoiding your parents’ questions about the gentleman suitor that had been a thorn in your side for as long as you could remember. One year of pushing back the date of his wedding to the woman to whom he was unwillingly betrothed. Two years of planning your escape and the happiness of your future with the man with which you had fallen in love._

_One pound and ten shillings for the symbol of your affection, your love, your commitment. It was more than a fair bargain._

_His locket was your favorite thing he owned. A sterling silver oval, tarnished with age. On one side was carved an intricate design of vines and leaves; on the other was engraved his Hebrew name. Given to him by his grandmother on the day of his bris, to him, the pendant symbolized a life he was trying desperately to escape, having felt suffocated by the orthodoxness of his family for years; as long as he’d known you. But a strong part of you thought it was lovely -- not just the shine of the parts of the silver that shone through the tarnish, nor the ornateness of the engravings, but the representation of such a strong heritage, of the dedication both to and from his family. Something you had never felt from your own. You longed to be worth something, more than a commodity to be bought and sold. More than just a means to carry on the bloodline of a family deemed worthy by society._

_But he hated it. He hated the pressure, hated the strictness and the heavy-handedness of the rules. So you decided to make him a new one. One to which he could associate himself and his own ideals rather than those pressured unto him by others. One to which he could associate freedom of identity rather than a given namesake._

_As a symbol of this, the Hebrew letters were forgone and replaced by his name in English script: Leigh Daniel Avidan. The name by which he went, the name by which most knew him, but most importantly, the name by which he knew himself._

_You left the jewelry store in a hurry, gift hidden under the collar of your shirt. Sunset was rapidly approaching, and you knew he was prone to worry. So you hurried down the brick road, passing several homogenous buildings, before turning into the alleyway, the one decided upon at your last meeting. In the darkened street, the usual bustle of crowded London had died down, and the street lamps began to flick on. The sun had set._

_Any moment now…_

_Gentle hands touched your waist from behind and you jumped, stifling a startled shriek as you whipped around, only to be met with the very same ruggedly handsome face graced with a benign expression to which you had become accustomed in these near-nightly clandestine meetings. This time, however, his countenance was different; the silken melted chocolate in his soft eyes glittered with excitement. More than just from seeing you. There was something else..._

_“I’m sorry,” he spoke quietly, careful not to draw attention, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”_

_“You never do,” you laughed. His hands stayed on your waist and pulled you in for a kiss, deeper and longer than you were expecting. You reciprocated, but became mildly concerned at the stark difference in his demeanor._

_With some effort, you pulled away, although he didn’t let you stray far, keeping your body pressed to his. You held him back with one hand on his shoulder, the other touching the sides of his face and his forehead, feeling for any sort of fever. “Are you alright?” you asked, “What’s got you so excited?”_

_His eyes, alight with emotion, explored your face zealously, every time as though you were the first, most beautiful woman he had ever seen. “I’ve got fantastic news.” His velveteen voice was bursting at the seams; it was all he could do to keep his volume low, to keep this a secret from the world._

_“What? What is it?” you urged._

_Still holding you in position with one hand, his other reached into his overcoat and produced a folded piece of white paper from an inside pocket._

_Upon gingerly unfolding the page, your vision was met by simple capital letters arcing over the clear picture of a steamship: WHITE STAR LINE._

_“On Wednesday, we’re leaving for America on the Titanic.”_

***

_November 21st, 1934_

“(Y/N)?” The smooth, charming alto of your co-actor broke you out of your trance of deep thought. “Darling, are you feeling alright?”

Looking at the reflection of Lorraine’s heavily made-up face in the large lit mirror of the dressing room you shared with the other women of the cast, you suddenly realized you had been staring at your own for probably far too long.

Although it was a good question, and one you weren’t sure you had a definitive answer to, you nodded to ease her concern. “Yes, I’m alright.” 

It hadn’t yet been two years since she swept you up off the streets of New York City, out of the scummy hands of greasy directors who wanted you to be the pretty face in their new movie. Even so, whether it was because your veil was thin or because of her own talent, she had a way of seeing right through you. “Nervous?”

Of course you were nervous. Even being in the chorus, the debut of your first Broadway musical was a big deal. It would be nerve-wracking to anyone. You nodded again. 

She came closer to you, approaching the back of the chair on which you had been sitting for a good length of time. She gently placed her delicate hand on your hair hardened from setting lotion in a soothing motherly gesture, cooing words about “knocking ‘em dead” and how much “they’ll love you out there”. You smiled simply in response, although you weren’t really listening.

Nervousness. But that wasn’t really it, was it? 

You had finished getting ready early enough that you had time to yourself, and when you had time to yourself, you had a habit of becoming lost in your deep-running thoughts. Thoughts about death. Or, as it was lately, the lack thereof.

Death was a fact of life for most. As sure as one was to be alive, it was just as sure that they would die. But your life was lived within the shadows of uncertainty, it seemed, and as such, you really weren’t sure anymore. Your reflection was a constant reminder of that fact, of your uncertainty; where on most people the physical effects of a life fully lived would be evident, despite hours upon hours of staring, searching, and studying, you saw nothing. No lines, no fading of color, no changes. Everything was the same for you; a body carved from stone rather than constructed of truly living flesh. You weren’t human. You couldn’t be. And yet, you appeared the same. Blood flowed through your veins, as it did for everybody else. You were alive -- or so you thought. But you couldn’t really be sure.

Was there anything of which you could really be sure?

A call from somewhere outside came as a reminder of the time: five minutes to curtain. A simple unanimous response of “thank you five,” and Lorraine returned to the bustle and the rush of the girls that surrounded you, in their presence leaving you completely and utterly alone.

***

_November 25th, 1934_

_For I'm just a vagabond lover,_  
_In search of a sweetheart it seems._  
_And I know that someday I'll discover her,_  
_The girl of my vagabond dreams…_

This had become commonplace. Infuriatingly so, in fact. Danny spent what was in his opinion a ridiculous amount of time in the window seat of Brian’s high rise apartment staring out the window at nothing. Singing, like a caged bird, of the things he had heard of and seen but never experienced. 

Brian did his best, occasionally providing accompaniment on the grand piano that sat in the corner. Sometimes the music was cathartic. Other times, however, it simply wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough to soothe his antsy, pent-up soul when he gazed upon the figures of two people in the street, although heavily distorted by the rain cascading down the glass, colliding and becoming one. 

“I want to leave, Brian,” he said quietly.

Brian continued to play, not looking up from the keys of the piano. “Sure. Want to see a movie? I think _The Thin Man_ is still playing at the —“

Danny interrupted him with a scoff. “For the second time this week?”

Brian said nothing, sensing the rhetoric in the question.

“You know what I mean.” Overrun with emotion but never one for conflict, Dan expressed his arguments quietly, if only to say what he felt if not to expect a solution. Especially not from Brian.

“I’ve told you a thousand times, Danny.” The flat, grating monotone spoke plainly over the music still being produced from the strings beneath the closed lid of the piano; shiny, black, and wooden like a coffin. “Everything’s essentially the same. There’s not much to see.”

This, of course, was a lie. There was a lot to see. Wild differences in culture, billions of different people. Fantastic sights, varying landscapes, from nature and city alike. But he also knew that with these things came danger. Death and corruption was rampant in the world outside the one he had built right here in New York. 

149 years of being alone, and 81 years of searching. He didn’t want to be alone again.

“‘Not much’, maybe,” Danny conceded, “But there’s something. There’s got to be.”

Brian’s hands slowed to stop on the ivory keys, and then folded in his lap. He stared at them, his eyebrows furrowed, as if they were going to give him an answer.

Was 149 years of loneliness worse than 22 years of suffocation?

“I suppose I can’t stop you.” Brian’s words drifted across the room, and as they landed on Danny’s ears they unlocked the chain that held shut the door of his cage. He was free. Though now he was sure he had been free to go for a long time if he had just tried a little harder.

And yet…

Danny cleared his throat and spoke up. “ _Anything Goes_ is playing on Broadway. I hear it’s good.”

Was 22 years of suffocation worse than 149 years of loneliness?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the love in the comments! It's not my most popular, but I'm really enjoying writing this. ❤️


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! Sorry it's been like 17 years but here's chapter 3! Writer's block has been kind of a bitch lately so thanks for your patience ❤️
> 
> Prepare yourself for some heavy emotions and sad sad death in this one.

**To:** you  
**Sent:** Thursday, September XX, 20XX 11:37 AM  
**From:** ‘Liv Bennett’  
**Subject:** A job for you

Hey lady!

I know you’ve been trying to take a break lately, but I just got a call from Jim Roach (yes, THAT Jim Roach) asking if I knew any female vocalists to provide the backup harmonies for a cover of Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper and I immediately thought of you. It’ll be gender-swapped, but I know you’re into that. 

Anyway, the band is called Ninja Sex Party, which I know is super weird, but Jim could not have given them higher praise. Apparently they’re super awesome guys, and really talented musicians. As the name suggests, they are a comedy band. But they also do covers of songs from the 70s and 80s - they’re working on their 4th cover album right now. Hence… this.

Let me know if you’re interested! Just thought it would be something fun to pull you out of hiding. :)

-Liv

***

_August 26th, 1950_

_“La mer… qu'on voit danser... le long, des golfes clairs...”_

Lorraine had originally posed the question to you semi-jokingly, after her fifth rejected audition in a row and one too many glasses of cheap wine. It had sparked a conversation of running away, of seeing the world and all it had to offer. 

“We’re free women,” she had reasoned, cigarette in hand, sprawled out on the chaise lounge bathrobe- and hair-curler-clad, in the corner of the living room of the tiny New York apartment that you had shared. “Don’t have a man to tie us down. Why shouldn’t we?”

You had been on the adjacent loveseat, nested inside a large plush blanket. You had smiled fondly, albeit amusedly at her over the lip of your glass. Knowing she was going to die long before you did had made you relish these moments you had with her so much more. “Do what?” you had asked innocently.

“Go!” she had exclaimed, gesturing wildly, the wine left in her half-full glass just barely managing not to spill, “Just go. Anywhere. Everywhere!” She had giggled drunkenly, taking another sip after calming down. “Don’t you think Paris would be lovely?”

_“A des reflet d’argents, la mer…”_

You had hummed neutrally in thought, staring into the deep red you held in your hand. You hadn’t really seriously thought about it. You had come to terms with the fact that you would probably stay the way you were for a very long time, if not forever, and therefore hadn’t seen the point in rushing. But Lorraine had wanted to. Understandably so, too. Her life had been finite, and you were seeing it with every rejection; casting directors turning her down for some young girl who was more beautiful by society’s standards. She had been tired, tired of it all. She had told you as much.

_“... ses blancs moutons, avec les anges si purs, la mer…”_

You had expected her to die. But you hadn’t expected it to be so soon. You hadn’t expected the diagnosis, nor had you expected the cancer to spread so quickly. And as you held her hand as she lie withering away on the hospital bed, the feeling was all too familiar. 

It’s why you had felt the obligation. It was a promise you had made to her, to see the world for the both of you. 

_“La mer… bergère d’azur, infinie…”_

It was also your instinct to run away; something that you had made a name for yourself doing. Several men had told you as much, upset by the fact that you hadn’t fallen in love with them as they had anticipated, having been brought up to believe that one night of sex with a woman was enough to bond her to you forever. But there wasn’t much point in that anymore. Not when they were just going to die and leave you alone again. 

It had been two years since you had dropped everything and left, intending only to visit but not having thought of a plan of how to get back. You didn’t know if you really wanted to go back anyway.

You didn’t know a lot of things. The only thing you knew with any amount of certainty was that you were here, now, on stage with your pianist, singing words you didn’t write yourself, in a language in which you weren’t fluent, in a key adjusted to your vocal range, to a crowd that was barely paying attention. Sometimes the stage lights reflecting off the sequins on your form-fitting dress were enough to draw the eye, but they mostly weren’t here for you. And you had come to accept that.

_“Voyez… ces oiseaux blancs, et ces maisons rouillées…”_

You sang at a lot of nightclubs, providing background noise for other people’s conversations, or a soundrack for the people who were there to drown their misery in alcohol. But Le Corbeau was your favorite place to do so, mostly because of the familiarity of your relationship with the owner. You were lucky Maximilien was the first person to pull you from your street corner, because despite your broken French and his broken English, his good nature helped him communicate to you more-or-less effectively which places were nightclubs and which places were recruiting you to be an escort at their brothel. “ _La ligne est mince,_ ” he had warned you enough times for you to finish his statement for him, a set of words which he was very fond of saying. And those words echoed in the back of your mind, when a “recruiter” looked you up and down as though inspecting a slab of meat hung in the window of a butcher’s shop. “ _Être attention._ ”

_Be careful._

_“Et d’une chanson d’amour, la mer…”_

At this point in your career, even just a few years having given you veteran status as you had lasted without falling victim to drugs and depression longer than most, you probably should have been able to recognize regulars as the bartender would. But your time was mostly spent blinded by the large spotlight, and everyone who wasn’t close to the stage blended in with the other near-identical silhouettes, until your show was over and you retired upstairs to the room in the attic Maximilien rented you in exchange for performing weekly. You had tried to offer him the money you could scrape up performing at various dive bars throughout the city, but he refused, explaining that he had always wanted a daughter but never had one. This sentiment had also been something painfully familiar, and you made a point to spend as little time outside of your room or off the stage as possible, finding comfort in the act of drowning your memories in cheap bottles of sour wine.

As you sang now, you looked over the crowd at the entrance, and for some reason unbeknownst to you, you felt someone’s presence. Someone important. Not just another recruiter or talent scout offering you another record deal that you would readily turn down. No, this was the kind of attention that meant something, but in a sense that was more real than you had ever felt before. It was different. 

Very, very different. 

_“A bercé mon cœur... pour la vie!”_

It scared you.

The indifferent crowd applauded politely at your finale, and you mumbled the few French words you actually knew the meaning of (“ _Merci beaucoup, bonne nuit_ ”) into the microphone before hurrying offstage, through the door to the back hallway, and up the stairs, back to your comforting solitude.

It wasn’t a fear of danger or harm; it was a fear of the overwhelming unknown. A loud part of yourself was crying out at you, begging you to follow the feeling, screaming that your destiny lie at the source. The strange thing was, you believed it. You knew that something, someone very important was out there in that audience. But you had finally found a pattern of safety in a place that you knew, and you weren’t ready to give that up. Not yet. 

You were sure that if it really was your destiny, it could wait. You knew you could, anyway. 

You had a lot of time to do so. 

***

The blue of the neon light that outlined the shape of a raven, standing noble over the red of the cursive lettering beneath it, caught Dan’s eye as the combined violet glow starkly contrasted the dark of the late night. Le Corbeau. He hadn’t seen that one before. Then again, this entire street had been unfamiliar to him as he, consistently a victim of insomnia, had been strolling casually and aimlessly down the pavement for an unspecified amount of time. At this point, at hours such as these, it seemed like he did nothing but. 

It had become more and more commonplace recently to startle awake from dreams as vague as the feeling of a shock of icy coldness, the distant sound of unintelligible voices, fading into darkness, numbness, silence. He would wake not only restless, but uneasy and unsure of himself, rendered completely unable to go back to sleep. At least without a multitude of hours’ worth of distractions.

He did a lot of walking.

A poster in the window advertised _La Petite Sirene_ in print much larger than the rest of the French text, most of which he didn’t understand. He could pick out some words, however, including _nuit de samedi_ — ‘Saturday night’. That was tonight. Wasn’t it? He wasn’t sure; he had stopped paying attention quite a while ago, especially since he had arrived at the northern border of France several years prior.

Brian had taken up an offer for a position as a tenured professor at a prestigious university in England — While Dan initially was ecstatic at the idea of new surroundings, his residence there, although brief, had made him inexplicably uncomfortable, feeling the deep guttural urge to flee. So he did. And, rather than going right back to the same place he had known for as long as he could remember, he wandered somewhere else. Anywhere, everywhere else. 

Brian had made it exceptionally clear that the two of them had nothing but time on their hands, so, he figured, its passage for him meant nothing, and therefore keeping track of it ultimately wasn’t necessary. However he did forget that days of the week mattered when it came to events and locations; what places were open and at what times. He might not run on a schedule, but the rest of the world did. It was easy for him to forget that. 

_“...et ces maisons rouillées…”_

As he approached the door, he heard familiar words sung in an unfamiliar voice — the club’s resident singer (La Petite Sirene, he guessed), performing a cover of a hit song he had heard everywhere. But that voice… 

_“Et d’une chanson d’amour, la mer…”_

It was unique; different and unknown. But somewhere deep within him he felt like he knew it — like _it_ knew _him_ — and it pulled his entire being toward it. Helplessly, he pulled open one side of the double door and stepped inside, the intense stench of cigarettes and perfume assaulting him in the darkened room.

The labyrinthian sea of people in front of him produced a low inattentive chatter, some seated at tables and others swaying gently in pairs. But above them, on the platform of a stage and harshly illuminated by a large spotlight stood the physical form of the voice; a complete stranger, and yet it was a level of innate familiarity as though he was projecting his own soul, his wants and dreams, onto the stage before him. 

_“A bercé mon cœur…”_

He had to still be dreaming -- sleep deprivation was obviously getting to him, most of all evident in the fact that he felt some kind of almost tangible connection, a lead that he frustratingly couldn’t see.

But he didn’t feel like he was asleep. In fact, he felt more awake right then than he ever had before in his life.

_“... pour la vie!”_

The final note was held loud and long, punctuated at the end by polite applause from the audience, and followed by a tired, quiet murmur into the microphone in the heavily unaccented French that only a non-native could speak. “ _Merci beaucoup, bonne nuit._ ” 

And then she was gone, disappeared hurriedly through a back door which swung carelessly shut behind her, as her accompanying pianist began another song.

Dan had an urge, a very strong one, to follow her. 

But, it seemed, as soon as she was gone, the hypnotization had left with her, and he was able to think rationally again. 

There were so many reasons why he shouldn’t. First and foremost, it looked very suspicious to follow a young woman through a nondescript back door. There were lots of people in the near vicinity who could bear witness to his actions, and those who weren’t privy to his reasoning most likely wouldn’t understand even if he tried to put his feelings into words. He might be physically stopped by one or more of those people, possibly even apprehended, and he didn’t know if it was worth the risk. 

_It is,_ his subconscious urged, _your destiny just walked through that door._

But if that was the case, he thought, then it wasn’t really necessary to risk so much in the name of instant gratification, when he had so much time ahead of him. If she really was his destiny, he could wait. 

He had a lot of time to do so.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no update, I know. But we're here again, and with this update comes the moment we've all been waiting for...  
> ❤️

A blur of several years went by. Exactly how many, he couldn’t be sure, but somewhere along the way he ended up back in America. If it wasn’t his place of origin, it was nonetheless the place which had been established as his home, and as such it only felt right that he go back. His arbitrarily long life currently being nothing but a state of bored contemplation, he didn’t really pay attention to the how or the why of it. 

But he was here now.

“Hey. Buddy.”

The clear, strong voice echoed just slightly along the concrete and metal of the garage, and Dan hadn’t noticed exactly when he had drifted into daydreaming territory. It did startle him into awareness though, and he realized he had been staring at the small stack of unopened envelopes — which he had held in his hands since he sat down at the cluttered desk in the corner of the garage several minutes ago — with complete inaction for far too long.

He looked up at the solid mass of human that was his coworker, Arin, who had turned his attention from one of the two motorcycles parked parallel to each other in the center of the garage to dig through a sloppily-labeled cardboard box of oil filters. 

If Dan didn’t know any better, and if the features of his face didn’t give away the softness that lie underneath, he might have been afraid of Arin. He definitely could take him in a fight, that much was certain — but Dan knew better than to consider the fact that he would even fight at all. “You alright there pal? These Harleys ain’t gonna fix themselves.”

New Hampshire wasn’t exactly a bustling location, and among the prevalent lack of people was an even more prevalent lack of motorcycle enthusiasts. Which is why, Arin would justify, the shop was that much more important. If it wasn’t for them, someone would have to go all the way to Manchester to fix up their bike. Then again, most people already lived closer to Manchester than they did here, so there were rarely any customers; it was mostly a makeshift guerrilla operation of “finding” bikes, bringing them back, dismantling them, and selling most of the parts that weren’t kept for personal use. Arin had started out convincingly enough with the story that he bought them at low prices from suckers who had no idea what they were worth. When that lie wore thin, he tried the excuse that they were old or abandoned, that he had found them on the side of the road, that they had obviously broken down… But Dan caught on quickly, and Arin wasn’t great at keeping up facades for long periods of time, especially with people he was particularly fond of. Not to mention the fact that Dan was entirely neutral to the situation, and saw the virtue and humanity in Arin’s character enough not to care about whose bike he stole. Despite his disregard for ownership of material objects, he would never intentionally cause harm to another human being outside of the purpose of retaliation, and that was enough.

But there was something else in there too. Something… kindred. Something known and familiar. He couldn’t really be sure exactly what it was. He had only felt it with Brian… and...

“Yeah,” Dan responded automatically, “Just thinking.”

Having found a filter that was satisfactory, Arin turned back to his previous project, although his attention to it was now divided. “About something?”

“Nah,” Dan muttered in a semi-lie.

Arin raised an eyebrow at his still-distant state. “Some- _one_?”

Dan scoffed, but his smile at the lighthearted playfulness was genuine.

Arin hummed in a mix of dissatisfaction and disbelief. “Gotta be something. There’s always something going on in that big ol’ head of yours. Don’t gotta be a genius to notice that.”

As the dark liquid drained from the core of the vehicle into a pan on the floor, he stood up and pulled out the white rag that hung halfway out of the back pocket of his jeans to wipe the motor oil from his hands. Dan’s lack of response told him that while the answers might have been worth pressing for, it wouldn’t be easy to get them. Besides that, he had something more prominent and probably more important on his mind, and Dan was making the anticipation worse by only fidgeting with the mail without actually making any effort to sort it. 

Arin nodded in his direction to nudge him along. “Anything from Suzy?”

Dan gave Arin a knowing sidelong glance before actually flipping through the envelopes, scanning the return addresses. He sighed a single held-out note as a signal that he was present and paying attention. Electric company, IRS, previous clients, presumably prospective clients, various contacts… Ah, yes. The unmistakably clean handwriting in black ink gave away the sender before the name even did. _Suzy Berhow_. 

“Yep. Here.” Dan held out the off-white envelope in the direction of his boss, who eagerly approached and retrieved it from his grasp. The remaining residue on the hands that grabbed it left dark marks on the paper as they nearly scrambled to tear open the envelope, struggling to remain ginger as they rushed to reveal the paper within.

In spite of his haste, Arin lingered in the mere presence of the letter, not even really reading it yet. His eyes scanned the page just to admire the aesthetic nature of Suzy’s impeccable handwriting. Even from where Dan was sitting several feet away, he could vaguely smell the sweet perfume in which the paper had been conservatively doused, the scent free to waft where it pleased now that it was untethered from the confines of the envelope, which had been carelessly tossed to the concrete floor.

Without removing his eyes from the letter, Arin turned to drop himself onto the tattered recliner that sat comfortably between the desk (“administrative office,” Arin insisted) and the smallest and dingiest of the several overflowing, disorganized work benches that lined the walls of the garage. The overworked piece of furniture groaned in protest under the weight of a human body, but he didn’t seem to notice, as per usual. Dan watched as he gazed lovingly at each carefully-written word, again and again, the fingers of one hand mindlessly pulling on the scruff of his goatee.

Then a realization hit.

“Dan, what day is it?”

Dan wasn’t generally a good person to ask about the concept of time, which was admittedly a poor quality for an assistant to have. But he was closest to the calendar, the previous page off which was routinely torn without fail on a daily basis. So, he glanced at it, relying solely on the trust that he hadn’t missed a day. “Tuesday.”

“No, you asshole,” Arin remarked playfully, “What day.”

Dan laughed to himself, and Arin responded in kind. “The 19th.”

Just what that meant dawned on both of them slowly.

“Fuck,” Arin said suddenly, shooting up out of his seat, much to its vocalized dismay, “What time is it?”

“Uhh…” Dan pushed aside some carelessly strewn-about papers to reveal the face of the small clock that stood nestled in the corner of the desktop. “Quarter to six.”

“Oh thank god, there’s time,” Arin said as he made his way to the door that connected the garage to the house that the two of them shared, “But I should leave soon. Wanna come?”

“Yeah, sure.” There really wasn’t any reason not to. Dan liked Suzy, and although there were things that he could be doing here, he was happy to have an excuse to leave the garage that didn’t involve active theft. That being said of course… “Hey man, don’t forget the product,” he called after him. “I didn’t spend all day packing shit up just to leave it here.”

“Ah shit, you’re right,” Arin called back, already inside the house, “Grab it, let’s go.”

Dan shot an exasperated look in the direction of the voice before turning to the stack of several boxes of packaged material. “I have to fuckin’ do everything around here?”

…

_“What’cha watching?” Suzy asked her boyfriend sweetly as she rested her head on his shoulder, peering at the screen of his laptop in an overtly obvious manner. She giggled at the title of the YouTube video displayed on the screen. “‘Ninja Sex Party?’”_

_“Yeah,” Arin confirmed, distracted by a strong sense of deja vu. “Ross told me to check them out.” And he was kicking himself now for not doing so sooner. “They’re pretty fuckin’ funny.”  
Although that wasn’t why. _

_Suzy was quiet for a moment before pointing to the ridiculously blue-spandex-clad man in the video. “That guy seems familiar. Like, really familiar. Do we know him?”_

_“I don’t know,” Arin muttered under his breath. This wasn’t entirely untrue. He couldn’t be sure, and the odds were definitely not in favor of this hypothesis. But that chiseled jawline. That lanky, awkward frame. That hair… ‘Familiar’ was an understatement._

_And if he was right about this…_

_Suzy made a short noise of thought as she stood and left the room._

_Arin needed to send a message._

...

Suzy always stood out. Her penchant for wearing all-black in 70-degree sunlight (often blocked with a matching parasol) and adorning herself in elegant lace was decidedly out of place in such a rural northeastern town. Not to mention the fact that her small, delicate features gave her a unique sort of beauty; classical, yet timeless. 

_Classical. Timeless._ The words played on a loop in Dan’s mind as he processed them. Still not sure exactly what made these select few people different from the many he had met in his lifetime.  
_Classical._  
_Timeless..._

With the turn of a key, the roar of the engine of Arin’s pickup truck cut off abruptly, and Dan suddenly realized he had been overthinking again. 

Arin tried his best to stifle the outward effects of the rush he felt, an incorporeal pull that he felt physically in the emptiness that manifested before and after these meetings. Sure, Suzy was a contact, a business partner — but from the moment they had met, she had become much, much more than that.

Arin jumped down from the cab of the truck to the concrete of the diner’s parking lot, wasting no time closing the distance between him and Suzy to duck under the parasol and encapsulate her in a warm, passionate embrace. Planting kisses on every inch of available skin. Murmuring words only audible to her. All being met with happy laughter from the recipient. Dan couldn’t help but smile to himself at the sweetness of it all, but they did have a job to do. And it was his job not to forget that. 

His actions were not quite as rushed, stepping down from the cab methodically before making his way to the bed, where he began unsecuring the ties that held down the beige canvas sheet that covered the carefully-packaged boxes of product. 

“Hey,” he called to Arin, whose face was still nestled in the crook of Suzy’s neck, “You wanna help me out here?”

Arin made a noise in protest.

“You’ll have plenty of time for that shit later,” Dan laughed, “Job first. Then fun time.”

“He’s right, babe,” Suzy cooed, patting his back in encouragement, “Five minutes. It’s nothing.”

Arin grunted in defeat, reluctantly pulling himself away from his love. “Fine. Five minutes. Let’s get going.”

Suzy opened the hatch to the trunk of her adjacently-parked, nondescript, black Sedan Delivery, and the two men got to work — Dan in the bed of the pickup, passing boxes to Arin, who loaded them into the car.

Partially due to Arin’s rushing, it took a lot less than five minutes for them to finish, go inside the tiny small-town diner, and seat themselves, at a booth in a back corner where Suzy felt a little more comfortable being as physically affectionate with Arin as he seemed to not be able to stop himself from being. And physically affectionate, they were. Across the table, Dan couldn’t do much but watch as Suzy sat comfortably half in Arin’s lap, tangled in his arms as they murmured sweet nothings to each other. 

Part of him thought it was beautiful, seeing one of the best friends he’d ever had so happy with someone so fitting, and seeing her so happy with him. But another part was just as regretful as it was jealous, because he knew too well what the innate pull felt like. And he couldn’t go back now to follow it, to give in to the feeling of knowing for sure what his soul needed to feel complete. God knows he had tried to find it again, many, many times. But none of the other women had quite the same feeling. All he could do right now, was…

“More coffee?” the waitress lilted as she sidled up to the table abruptly, and Dan looked up at her, meeting her knowing gaze. 

She really was pretty. The two of them had become vaguely acquainted after having claimed the diner as the regular rendezvous location, and this situation having become the usual. 

He realized, though, as he studied her expression a little more — the slightly-lowered eyelids, the way she leaned on the back of his seat on a hand that was comfortably close to his head, the faint upturn that played on the corners of her lips in a smile that was a little more than polite… she was asking for more than just coffee. She was intrigued. And he couldn’t say he wasn’t interested as well. She _really_ was pretty...

“Yeah,” Dan answered, “I think we might be here a little while.”

They were.

An hour passed of idle conversation every so often breaking through the deep trance of affection on the other side of the table; Arin telling stories of his and Dan’s exploits to which he occasionally added or corrected, and Suzy recounting experiences she had had on her travels, before inevitably leading back into the couple’s discussion of future ideals, of having the money to quit and run away together, to live a different life that they so desperately wanted.

And all the while, Dan continued to make curious glances at the waitress’ sheepish smiles in response to his catching her staring.

She was _very_ pretty.

So much so, that all it took was a gentle nudge and a beckoning finger for him to follow her to the supply closet.

It wasn’t everything he needed. But it was something he could use to fill the void, however temporarily; something that, in the moment, he wanted.

And, if her excited movements, the grip of her hands on his clothes and tangled in his hair, and the words that formed out of the hushed moans that escaped her in response to his wandering, exploratory touch, were any indication, it was something she wanted too.

***

You reread the black text on the glowing white background of your phone’s screen, comparing the address and landmarks provided in the email to the location in front of which you were currently parallel-parked. You understood why big recording studios preferred to keep their respective whereabouts hidden; it was better to avoid masses of rabid fans than it was to be easily found. Nonetheless, it was a hassle trying to find them when you were invited.

 _Ninja Sex Party_. You rethought your actions, and what exactly you had agreed to. After all, a nondescript location could as much be a recording studio as it could be a sex trafficking ring. And with a name like that… No. It was too on-the-nose. And Liv had gotten you the gig, promising that it was legit, that Jim Roach (“THAT Jim Roach”, something she was fond of saying as a means of introducing anyone to you, no matter their reputation) was a seasoned industry professional who knew what he was doing. She had never let you down before. Google had confirmed the legitimacy of Santa Monica Recordings. And you had been going through a dry spell lately career-wise. So you figured you might as well.

Cautiously, you pushed open the door and were greeted by a reception room, the brightness of which was in stark contrast to the inconspicuous nature of the outside of the building. A man, average in both height and stature, was chatting with a woman who sat behind the tall desk, but stopped abruptly as you walked in, in order to fully turn his attention to you.

“Hey! (Y/N), right?” He warmly approached you, hand outstretched in a friendly gesture, which you took in an equally friendly manner. “I’m Jim. Awesome to finally meet you, Liv has told me a lot about you. Nothing but good things.”

“Likewise,” you replied as you followed him a short distance to a door in the corner where he was busy with the sturdy lock on the handle. “I’m so excited to get to work with you.” You had a tendency to hide your natural apprehension behind a front of positive professionalism, which generally served you well in your career.

He led you back through a hallway which was considerably darker than the foyer, which might set off a flare of anxiety in any other situation. But, for once, it was your gut feeling that was working against your logical mind, your id coalescing with your superego to fight against your ego, that drove you to continue. There was something inside you that told you this was right. And you believed it. 

Jim opened another door and you stepped through it, greeted by a room that was relatively small, but cozy; an enormous mixing board spanned the wall to your right; a desk with another mixing board, dual monitors, and a mouse and keyboard was directly in front of you; and a plush loveseat was to your left, upon which was seated a different man of similarly average stature although considerably more grayed, who stood up upon noticing your entry.

“(Y/N)?” he clarified, extending his hand toward you in greeting.

“That’s me.” You took his hand, which he shook firmly. You studied his face. Something about him felt different. Not bad, not malicious. But not foreign, either. You couldn’t help but feel… 

“Awesome! So good to meet you. I’m Brian, and Danny’s in the bathroom, he should be —” Something he saw over your shoulder made him redirect his train of thought. “Hey, speak of the devil!”

A soft tenor spoke up from behind you. “Hey, is this — ?”

He stopped as you turned to face him.

As did your heart.

The world around you seemed to freeze.

And despite the magnetism, you suddenly felt very, very cold.


	5. The rest (WIP)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be the final update to this fic.
> 
> It's not... really an update, but I felt bad about leaving it on such a crazy cliffhanger.
> 
> I'm not going to continue writing self-insert about Dan, because he recently came out about having a girlfriend, and so it feels disrespectful of me to continue to write these kinds of things.
> 
> So here's the rest of the WIP, what I had written and was trying to expand upon. It's not great. But the story is there somewhat.
> 
> Sorry for ending stuff, but you know. 
> 
> (Also I will not tolerate any kind of talking shit on Ashley. Those comments WILL be deleted.)
> 
> Thank you guys for all the love and support over the past year. Love you ❤️

_Women and children. You fell into that category; he didn’t._

_“I’ll see you in New York,” he joked, remaining playful. Even amongst the terrified panic of the other passengers. Even as he shed tears of raw emotional pain._

_You laughed at the absurdity of his attitude, but it quickly faded. You couldn’t see humor in this. In any of this._

_Hundreds of people would die. The odds that he would not be among those people were slim. And you would have to live the rest of your life knowing that he wouldn’t be with you._

_You would have chosen to stay with him, but he couldn’t let you. If you had a chance at survival, you needed to take it. For his sake._

_There were so many things you wanted to tell him, so many words you had yet to say. So much time you could have had, a future stolen from you._

_Passengers were being pushed forward, and you felt the suddenness of your time running out. You had to summarize. Through your shaking voice and your trembling body, you choked out the only words you knew and the only ones that had ever made sense._

_“I love you.”_

—

A scratch track and several takes later, you found yourself on one side of the loveseat, cross-legged with a throw pillow nestled between your resting hands and your lap. The sound of your voice played through the stereo speakers on the wall, first isolated, then layered with the melody tracks, then over the instrumentals. 

Usually this part made you nervously cringe; most people hated the sound of their own voice, and you weren’t too terribly different, only having gotten this far from other people’s opinions. But as it mingled harmoniously with Dan’s, you were no longer self-conscious about it. In fact, for some reason unbeknownst to you, you were the calmest you had been in a long time. 

It was a near-impossible struggle to remain professional, to focus on the task at hand, to pretend that this was a normal interaction between two normal people in a normal work environment. You tried your best, and he did too, reacting to quips, laughing and joking, providing opinions about how it “sounded great”. He was funny, and awkward, and real. But the amount of time you spent staring, studying his features, trying to understand what it was about him that felt like a godsent miracle in such a goofy human being, would have been uncomfortable for most people. 

It would, if he hadn’t felt it too. 

The feeling that your meeting had been fated from the beginning, that your sole purpose for existing was to be together. The feeling that something that had been absent for so long had once again been found. 

It also would have been entirely hypocritical of him to react negatively, seeing as he was doing the exact same thing. The act of simply being in your presence exhibited in him a great sense of peace, the likes of which he had never felt before. And he was dying to know more, to understand why.

You weren’t completely aware of exactly how much time had passed before Brian stood up from where he was seated in an extra office chair across the room. “I should be heading home. Audrey’s doing this thing right now where she won’t go to bed until she says goodnight to both mommy and daddy, so.” 

The rest of the room’s occupants stood to say goodbye, and you followed suit, breaking out of your distracted state to put on that same mask of friendly professionalism that you were so used to wearing. 

Brian looked at Dan with an expression that was hard to place — Curious, yet knowing; cautionary, yet encouraging. Dan could tell he had a strong suspicion, but of what he wasn’t sure. 

“It is getting pretty late,” Jim commented after Brian had shut the door behind him, “I should probably head home too. Which means you all need to get the hell out of my office.” 

He laughed, and the two of you responded in kind, before legitimate pats on the back were shared, and supportive comments of the good work you did today. 

The hallway was just slightly too snug to allow for anything wider than single-file, so Dan followed you as you both made your way to the front entrance, and out the door, where the street lights had begun to illuminate one-by-one as the LA sun faded to blue twilight. Your movements were slow, your insides ferromagnetic to the man that stood behind you. 

“So, stop me if this is weird, but...” he began. You slowed to a casual stop as he stepped around you to be in view. “Do you wanna get dinner?”

His expression was hopeful, albeit confident in the fact that he knew what the feeling was. Perhaps not able to fully understand why, but he knew it was something. Despite the enigmatic nature, it was somehow more assured. He had only felt it once, a very long time ago, and he had been stupid enough at the time to let it go — he wasn’t about to do so again. 

“Yeah.” You knew it. You recognized the feeling. You could read it in his eyes. “I would love that.”

You did. 

A sushi platter and mindless conversation were shared. It was less like you were getting to know each other and more like you were catching up, like you hadn’t seen each other in a long time and were sharing stories of the respective lives you had lived since the last time you met. 

A lot of it went right through you, as you felt like you knew it already. A lot of your experiences were coincidentally shared; being young and free and without purpose in France, substance use to self-medicate the depression that came with the acceptance of life’s meaninglessness, wildly varying exploits in relationships that you knew were wrong from the beginning and that inevitably didn’t last, and the innate talent for singing that you’d had for as long as you could remember. You had recounted these things to many people in the past, but none of them understood quite like he did. It was like he had been there from the beginning. 

It was a short walk back to your car, but your slow mosey made the duration of time much longer than was technically necessary, dragging out the experience until the last possible second. 

On the sidewalk next to your car, at a point where there wasn’t any more distance you could procrastinate traversing, a moment’s hesitant silence hung in the air. The way he was looking down at you, the remnants of a faint smile ghosting his face, gently illuminated by a dim street light nearby… the sudden realization hit that you needed him. You needed him in more of a capacity than you had. 

He inhaled a short, tentative breath, holding nervously for a fraction of a second. You knew what he was going to say. “Can I —?”

You nodded assuredly. “Please.”

You had already melted in response to the softness of his leading hand on the side of your face before he even kissed you, but the pure electricity in the feeling of his lips on yours completely destroyed any sort of defense you might have had up until that point. 

As he pulled back ever so slightly, just enough to meet your gaze as your eyes slowly drifted open, to gauge whether you felt that this was as cosmically right as he did... you realized you were okay with that. 

There was heat in his eyes, hidden behind the tender sweetness. You could sense it. And you could only imagine the fire that burned in your own. He let out a soft, careful breath, your closeness not allowing for much cooling of the humid air before it grazed your lips, and a wave of intense yearning washed over you. 

_[[[This chapter wasn't finished but I couldn't figure out how to continue with it so I moved onto the next one]]]_

_The panic is vague._  
_You can’t see._  
_You can’t feel your heart beating._  
_You don’t know which way is up._  
_You can’t breathe._  
_There’s nothing_ to _breathe._  
_All that exists is cold._  
_And panic._  
_Panic that fades._  
_Fades into nothing._  
_Pure, empty._  
_Nothing._  


A deep, desperate gasp and your eyes were open.

A moment of reorientation, and, despite the fact that the sound of your heart was deafening in your ears, your mind calmed down enough to realize that you were looking out at your bedroom, dimly illuminated only by the soft natural light of early dawn.

You were here.  
You were alive, conscious, safe, and warm.

_Very_ warm.

You felt the weight of an arm draped across your waist, the shape of another one supporting your head, and the heat that radiated from both leading back to its source: the sleeping form which breathed slowly, deeply, and steadily against your shoulder. 

Your logical morality knew it was wrong. You had left your days of fucking on the first date behind you a long time ago, and you especially knew that doing so with a colleague was very bad etiquette and made things extremely messy. 

But something inside you knew this was different. 

Not different in all the other ways they had been before, either. This felt so incredibly real, and so intrinsically right. You didn’t meet through work. You couldn’t have. Some instinct hidden somewhere deep-seated within you told you that work brought you back together. That you had been bonded from the beginning. That it was more than just physical attraction. 

How could you even begin to rationalize that?

You felt a cold rush of air across your bare skin on his deep inhale as he stirred, and as you turned your head to look at him as his eyes sleepily fluttered open to meet yours… you realized you didn’t need to.  
It really wasn’t a rational thing.

“‘Morning,” he rumbled, haphazardly pushing his wild hair out of his face. The sleepy, satisfied smile that adorned his unshaven face spurred a secure warmth that spread across every one of your nerves and brought your own expression to mirror his. 

Then you remembered. 

You remembered a lot. Probably more than you should have been able to. And, judging by Dan's reaction, the resulting confusion in your lack of an answer as to why apparently showed through on your face, his smile fading to a vague glimmer. 

“Did you…?” He trailed off, not sure how to adequately consolidate every question into one. 

“Dream?” you responded in a half-whisper.

He broke into an almost forced half-smile in relief that you knew what he was talking about. “Yeah. That.”

You nodded slowly, in thought. It didn’t feel like a dream. It felt far too real to call it that. But “memory” was too definitive, too certain. There was no way you were on the Titanic, let alone with Dan. You had been alive a long time, but you were sure you hadn’t existed then.  
Although, come to think of it, you couldn’t remember ever being small, only naive. Young in soul, never in body. You had to have been born somehow, at some point, right? Why couldn’t you remember?  
How much of your life had been lived only to be completely erased from your memory?

And why, now? Why was Dan the catalyst? What was it that made him so inexplicably different than anybody else you had ever met? 

You were never one to believe in fate; such feelings in most cases could be easily written off as leftover oxytocin flooding your brain. But this time… Maybe… Just maybe…

The lilting rhythm of a jaunty ringtone startled you out of your thoughts. It wasn’t yours.

You watched his eyes gather the pieces of a realization until he shot upright. “Fuck, what time is it?”

You followed his gaze to the bright red LED numbers on your bedside table. 11:34.

“Shit.” He scrambled over your legs to the pile of his clothes on the floor adjacent to the bed, shuffling around the various mixed fabrics to find the source of the sound.

You pulled yourself upright slowly and rubbed your eyes in an attempt, however fruitless, to abate the dazed dreaminess that still surrounded you. Real life was still a thing. It was still happening. It was time to wake up.

“Hey,” he greeted the other end of the line breathlessly as he sat down on the corner of the bed, pinning the phone between his ear and his shoulder so that he could use both his hands to put on his pants. The casual brazenness with which he carried out his actions, as though this were part of a routine, might have been somewhat frustrating in another situation. It was normally a reminder of the fact that this was nothing more than a fling, a single night that you would never experience again. 

But this time, his occasional short, thoughtful glances toward you and his amused, reassuring expressions that he littered throughout the promises that he spoke into the receiver of his phone (he had overslept, yeah, he knew, he’d be there soon), reassured you that this was something more. That he wanted it to be something more.

At least you hoped that was the case.

Desperately so.

You leaned down to retrieve the oversized flannel that was laying nearest you on the floor and began a methodical process of putting it on. 

He stood up, one hand finishing with the zipper of his jeans as the other one took the phone and hung up.

“Sorry, that was, uh… My friend. Boss? Friend. Arin. We work together.” He laughed as he bent down to grab his T-shirt. “We’re supposed to do a stream today and I, uh… Well. You know.”

“Overslept.” You giggled, finishing with the front buttons of your shirt and moving to stand up. “Yeah, I’ve been there.”

After several creaks and groans from your underworked joints, and a large full-body stretch, there you were again. Standing there, looking at each other. Not fully sure of anything, aside from the fact that neither of you really wanted him to leave. 

But…

“So,” he broke the silence, “Ordinarily I would offer to take you out for breakfast. Or…” He glanced down at his phone. “Lunch, as it were. But…” He trailed off, meeting your eyes apologetically. 

God knows you wanted that. Badly. But you shrugged. “You’ve got shit to do. It’s all good, I get it.” You smiled amicably as you stepped forward to meet him. “Some other time.”

“I mean, if you’re offering.” Despite your physical distance shortening, he looked at his phone again, tapped a few times, and then interrupted your trajectory by thrusting it at you. 

You blinked, and looked at the new contact screen. Oh. Duh.

You complied with his silent suggestion and entered your name and number before handing it back to him. “I would love that.”

In one grip, and with an amount of suaveness and grace that surprised you, he took hand in which you held the phone and pulled it to his lips. The warmth of his touch, gentle yet persuasive, coupled with the purpose with which he met your gaze, melted your entire body. “That’s good,” he mumbled into your skin before releasing you, “It would be a damn shame if you wouldn’t.”

You led him out your bedroom and ushered him to the front door of your house, the LA heat that lie in waiting on the other side serving as a stark contrast to the interior air conditioning as you opened it. 

He lingered on the porch. You lingered in the doorway. 

“I’ll text you,” he promised. 

You smiled. “Can’t wait.”


End file.
